Angelique and Delilah had faced challenge after challenge, but so far nothing had been insurmountable when it came to The Grand Palace on the Thames. But the longer the footman search continued, the more likely it seemed that their unbroken streak of indomitability was coming to an end.
And then...
Mr. Tweedy had come to call.
His head was a strong, plain box shape, his eyes were brown and twinkly, his smile revealed complete rows of teeth, and his hands were the size of spades. An oxen would envy his shoulders, which were joined to his head by a massive neck. Delilah and Angelique had begun to reflexively assess every man they saw by whether he could reach high places in order to dust them, or polish the windows, or insert candles into sconces, and the top of Mr. Tweedy’s head (brown hair cropped to bristle length) nearly brushed the door frame. He’d be able to run errands and return carrying heavy things, and perhaps thump an intruder in the jaw with a fist should the need arise. Perhaps he’d even take up a hammer and nails on occasion, all work that had so far fallen to their beleaguered husbands, or to their previous American guest Mr. Hugh Cassidy, who’d craved hard, physical work the way a big healthy dog needs a good gambol in a park.
On the whole, Mr. Tweedy seemed unlikely to haunt the dreams of the housemaids. Then again, the housemaids, Dot included, all possessed fecund imaginations, fertilized by the gossip columns Dotread aloud in the kitchen and the horrid novels they sometimes read aloud in the sitting room at night. Angelique had come upon them taking turns practicing swooning onto the pink settee in the reception room when they were supposed to be dusting.
And while Angelique and Delilah had fallen in love with Mr. Tweedy straightaway, they were no fools. They asked the pertinent questions.
“Why do you find the need to leave your current position, Mr. Tweedy?”
For a moment, he’d sat in dignified silence. His eyebrows seemed to suggest he was wrestling with a great inner torment.
They began to worry.
He began haltingly. “You see, I do not like to gossip and I would neverdreamof gossiping about you or your place of business... so very gauche, don’t you think? I am usually the soul of discretion. So I share this with great reluctance and I begyourdiscretion...”
“We understand. Of course.” They were on tenterhooks.
He sighed. “I confess I am in search of a more peaceful and... well, civilized place in which to work. You may be surprised to learn that the homes of earls and viscounts are not necessarily...” He closed his eyes, then opened them. He lowered his voice and leaned forward to confide in a whisper, “Dear lord, thedebauchery...”
They’d tried not to look too interested.
“I am not averse to merriment, of course. But my employer’s gatherings feature a good deal of...” He cleared his throat. “...shriekingand . . . well, hooting . . . and laughing . . . females. This sound carries to the top of the house, such that the servants struggle to get agood night’s sleep, which makes it more difficult to do a fine job, which is all I ever want to do in the world.”
They aimed limpidly supportive gazes at him.
“It is difficult to know what my employer requires of us when he is frequently indisposed due to... ah, the importunate imbibing of... spirits.”
The word “importunate” sent delicious tingles down their spines. Mr. Tweedy not only knew four-syllable words, he had earlier demonstrated that he could write and spell them.
“But I think I decided to seek a new position in earnest when I found a... if you’ll pardon my frankness...” He cleared his throat, then sighed. “...silk stocking... dangling from the chandelier.”
He blushed pink.
Bless his heart.
Delilah and Angelique acknowledged this confession with the moment of scandalized silence he clearly felt it deserved.
“We are not averse to merriment, either, Mr. Tweedy, but only crystals hang from our chandeliers,” Delilah assured him.
“Mainly because our aim isn’t very good,” Angelique added.
They all laughed merrily. Mr. Tweedy included, thankfully.
“I am in search of a mature and sensible employer who has his hand firmly on the tiller. And I do like the notion of a variety of guests! And musical evenings—my goodness, what a thrilling idea. And the sea air is so bracing here,” he said wistfully.
Mr. Tweedy was clearly prepared to fall in love with The Grand Palace on the Thames, too, given just a little encouragement.
“If it’s civility you crave, we’ve an epithet jar in the sitting room. Good manners are gently enforced and we find that our guests and staff appreciate knowing we will always do our utmost to maintain a safe and peaceful home. We love laughter, but we loathe chaos,” Delilah told him.
They purposely did not mention their tenant Mr. Delacorte, who had nearly worn a path between his favorite chess table in the sitting room and the epithet jar. Mr. Delacorte was best experienced personally to appreciate, and was, diplomatically speaking, a bit of an acquired taste.
“And your list of rules!” Mr. Tweedy sighed happily. “So clever. So veryright. Why, they ought to be framed.”
The frame-worthy rules of which Mr. Tweedy approved, printed on little cards and handed to every guest and left on the desks in all the rooms, were: